


your body is a wonderland

by unbridgeabledistances



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Heavy Fluff, M/M, One Shot, happy new years everyone!, mickey says fuck the post new years weight loss industry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28480338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbridgeabledistances/pseuds/unbridgeabledistances
Summary: “Why the fuck are you working out right now, Superman?” Mickey asked. “Let’s go to bed,” he added with a playful smirk, giving Ian an obvious wink.Ian rolled his eyes. “Can’t. I made a new year’s resolution I’d stay in shape. Especially now that I’m not doing manual labor every day or whatever, I’ve gotta stay on top of it.”Mickey scoffed. “New year’s resolution? C’mon man, all that stuff is bullshit— it’s just a way to make dumpy middle aged moms spend a couple hundred bucks on weight loss pills at the bougie organic food store, that shit doesn’t actually mean anything.”-Based on the tumblr prompt: I was wondering if you could write some ian/mickey fluff around body image??? this time of year I’m really feeling it & I love supportive/loving/acceptance partner fluff
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 6
Kudos: 250





	your body is a wonderland

**Author's Note:**

> tw for body talk/unhealthy body image! this can take place anytime after 11x03, and sort of rehashes the whole uncomfy “who’s the man in the relationship” debate
> 
> <3 happy new year everyone!

It was the dead of night at the Gallagher house— everyone was probably asleep, judging by the lack of creaking floorboards, the house silent except for the hiss of the radiator coming from the hallway. Mickey was sitting in bed, leaning up against a few of his grimy pillows wedged between his back and the wall, playing some zombie game on his phone with the volume turned all the way up. In contrast, Ian, his goody-two-shoes husband, was laying on the dusty wooden floor beside the bed, the neckline of his tank top drenched with sweat as he did sit-ups, letting out small huffs of breath every few seconds. Sitting on the bed above Ian, listening to him breathe in and out as he bobbed up and down on the small surface area of the floor, oddly reminded Mickey of a year ago, when they were both still sharing a cramped jail cell; when they knew each other’s every move, every emotion, every inch of each other’s bodies. Back then, listening to Ian’s repeated huffs of breath would have annoyed the shit out of him—but right now, it was making his mind veer in other directions.

Mickey paused the game, just as a pixelated zombie started eating his avatar’s brains.

“Why the fuck are you working out right now, Superman?” Mickey asked. “Let’s go to bed,” he added with a playful smirk, giving Ian an obvious wink.

Ian rolled his eyes. “Can’t. I made a new year’s resolution I’d stay in shape. Especially now that I’m not doing manual labor every day or whatever, I’ve gotta stay on top of it.”

Mickey scoffed. “New year’s resolution? C’mon man, all that stuff is bullshit— it’s just a way to make dumpy middle aged moms spend a couple hundred bucks on weight loss pills at the bougie organic food store, that shit doesn’t actually mean anything.”

Ian looked up at Mickey as he continued to bob up and down from the floor, slightly irked (as he always appeared to be whenever Mickey was rambling and distracting him in the middle of his workout). “Does to me. Haven’t you ever heard of self-improvement? Setting goals?”

“Goals? Fuck you, I don’t need goals or resolutions or any of that shit.” Mickey said, throwing his phone onto the nightstand and peering over the side of the bed to fully focus his attention on Ian, who was still swerving up and down.

“It’s always the people who say that who need them the most, Mick,” Ian said between breaths.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. Forget it.”

“No, c’mon. Does that mean you want me to change or some shit?”

“Course not,” Ian huffed. “But I don’t know—like getting a job, making a plan, being productive, all that shit. No one’s gonna force you to do that stuff, especially not me. You gotta do it yourself.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, but underneath his bravado something was stirring. _What the fuck?_ Did Ian really want him to pay attention to all that shit? Did he actually think Mickey needed a new year’s resolution, needed to be better? Mickey quickly played over all the conversations they’d had the past few weeks in his mind—arguing over who was the man in the relationship, who was the breadwinner. At the root of all their bickering, Mickey realized in an instant, was the issue of him feeling like he wasn’t enough. Mickey knew Ian wasn’t being serious with his comments about his body, that he had the body of a pre-teen girl or playfully jesting that Ian was actually the “man”—but it still stung somewhere deep, still latched onto that small voice in his brain (probably planted there by Terry, if he was being honest) saying that he was unlovable, that he would never be good enough for Ian.

Mickey had never really been self-conscious physically— sure, he was scared shitless of other parts of himself for a long time, like his sexuality or if he would ever amount to anything beyond his father’s shadow, but he had never really given much thought about the way his body looked, or compared his body to anyone else’s— until now.

There was something different about the way Mickey thought about his body once Ian brought up all this “man” shit—back when they started being together, before Mickey was out, Mickey realized that he had always subconsciously saw himself as the “man,” the tough guy, while Ian frequently got passed over as “some twink” by the few people looking at their relationship dynamic from the outside (despite the fact that Ian could definitely hold his own in any fight by the time he had hit his growth spurt). Back then, Mickey never really paid attention to his own body whenever he was with Ian; he had mostly been overtaken by enamorment with Ian, with the skinny and scrawny boy working at the mini-mart that Mickey went crazy for no matter what he looked like. Whether Ian was wearing camo booty shorts that showed off his lean body while he confidently danced under strobe lights, or a tattered oversized flannel and could barely do a pull-up, Mickey was always awestruck when he looked at him. All he wanted to do was be near Ian, to protect him— even if it landed him behind bars.

And then he saw Ian at the baseball field, when he broke out of prison, and Ian had looked _different_ —his eyes were still the same safe, clear pools of green, but his body was more sturdy and solid, filling out his bulky EMT uniform’s jacket— like Ian had grown into himself while Mickey was gone, like he had grown up without him. And even though by now they had spent months and months together, on the road and in jail and quarantining because of this fucking pandemic, and Mickey loved everything about this version of Ian, reveled in his healthy figure and rippling muscles—in some ways, Mickey felt like he himself had been left behind, like he still had some growing up to do.

And if Ian did his growing up by getting jacked while Mickey was locked up, Mickey could do that too. He could become the “man” just as much as Ian was.

Mickey snapped out of his train of thought as Ian sat up after a final lurch upwards, folding his arms over his knees and looking up at Mickey.

“Mick. You good?” Ian reached his hand up onto the bed and placed it on top of where Mickey’s hand was limply sitting. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, forget all that resolution shit. I was just talking.”

Mickey let Ian gently entwine his fingers with his. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it, hotshot.” He paused. “Now, you done pumping iron and ready to get on me?”

Ian smirked. “You know I am.”

**

While it definitely shouldn’t have been that big of a deal, the entire next day all Mickey could think about was his new year’s resolution—to get buff, and to grow the fuck up. Why couldn’t he be as muscular as Ian was, even when he spent hours lifting those goddamn kegs in Kev’s gym just like everyone else?

Mickey had always been fine with how short he was, and had tried to own it his whole life—but for some reason, looking at his own reflection today put his teeth on edge. _Why couldn’t I be a few goddamn inches taller?_ His rage grew until it overflowed in the kitchen at breakfast time, when Franny had asked for cereal and Ian reached over Mickey to get the cereal box off of the top shelf of the cupboard.

Mickey had immediately shoved him out of the way. “I can get the cereal for her myself, asshole.”

Ian stepped back from the cabinet, brow furrowing in confusion. “Jesus, okay. Suit yourself.”

After a sour morning of force-feeding shredded wheat to Franny, Mickey headed straight to Kev Fit, needing to get out of the house and clear his head.

When he returned home, Mickey stumbled into the door sweaty and aching. _Take that, Gallagher._ He’d been at Kev’s gym for the better part of the afternoon, curling weights until he saw stars. Mickey immediately dragged himself up the stairs, and turned the corner into he and Ian’s bedroom.

Ian was seated on the bed with crossed legs, reading some book. He looked up when Mickey walked into the room, his eyes light.

“Hey! What were you up to for that long?”

Mickey didn’t reply, but instead cast his gaze to Ian’s streamlined torso, his body warming in the sun slanting in from the windows. _Fuck._ He was never going to look like that, no matter how hard he tried….

“Gonna go take a shower,” Mickey mumbled, leaning over to grab a discarded bath towel from the ground and avoiding Ian’s eyes.

But of course, Ian knew something was wrong— Mickey was in the shower for approximately 30 seconds, the water barely turning warm as it beat down on Mickey’s skin, before Ian was pulling back the shower curtain and stepping into the base of the tub.

Mickey put his face under the spraying water. “Not in the mood right now, Gallagher.”

Ian just stepped closer, putting his hands on Mickey’s waist. “Well, you even saying that is a sign that I should be in here. You’re never _not_ in the mood, so something must be up. What’s going on?”

Mickey let the water run over his hair, thrumming on his scalp and running down the back of his neck, then doused his face in the scalding spray again. “Fuck off, I just need a second.”

Ian stepped back, letting go of Mickey and leaning on the other wall of the bathtub. “Okay. I’ll leave if you need me to. But I do think this would be a lot more painless if you just told me what was up. Y’know, communication and all that shit.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. _Fucking couples therapist_. He looked down at his feet, at the water pooling and swirling down the drain, and let the silence swell. “I don’t know. Maybe… maybe all that new year’s resolution shit got a little in my head?”

Mickey could feel Ian’s eyes on him, but he still didn’t look up.

“What d’you mean? I told you, Mick, you don’t have to change anything that you don’t want to. I was mostly just talking about my own shit.”

Mickey kept staring at the suds swirling down the drain. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Yeah, well, you wanting to change shit about your perfect body made me realize I should also probably also get a move on.”

They were silent again, the only sound the melody of the splashing water. Then Ian stepped forward, lifting Mickey’s chin up with his cupped hand and making their eyes meet.

“Mickey, my body isn’t perfect, it’s a fucking body. And half the time I hate it— it’s been broken and weak and done stupid shit. I barely know what’s going on in my brain half of the time, and working out’s a thing I can control. But, Mick, that doesn’t mean I want you to change _anything_ about you.”

Ian’s earnest gaze was cutting him open, those same swirling hazel eyes that Mickey could lose himself in forever. Mickey swallowed, trying to push down all the things he was feeling—but of course, they burst out anyways.

“That’s easy for you to say, Gallagher. You’re every gay guy’s wet dream—I mean, you were a literal firefighter for fuck’s sake— and I’m just some piece of garbage who’s going to be sitting here, doing nothing with my life and growing a beer gut on my apparently hairless body like my dumbass dad.”

Ian’s brows furrowed, and he dropped his hand from Mickey’s chin. _Fucking great. I’ve finally pushed him away._ Mickey looked down again, not wanting to see whatever expression was on Ian’s face.

Then Ian leaned even closer to Mickey, and pressed a tender kiss to his collarbone. And his neck. And his chin.

“Mick, you’re perfect,” he nearly whispered.

Ian’s hands traced up and down his sides, leaving ghosts of a touch, like he was running his fingertips over something precious. He swept over Mickey’s shoulders, his chest, his back. He gently traced the outline of the tattoo on Mickey’s chest. Pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Mick, there’s no one else like you. No one that looks like you. It’s beyond even being attracted to you, you’re just so… beautiful, y’know?”

If Mickey wasn’t in such a trance from Ian’s gentle touches, he would have scoffed at that remark; but right now, all he could do was give in to the safety and comfort of the steamy bathroom, and lean into Ian’s shoulder. “Shut the fuck up,” he mumbled into Ian’s skin.

Ian’s hands deftly ran through Mickey’s wet hair. “It’s true, Mick. You’re just… you’re everything. I don’t want you to change— I’ve always loved you, even when you were a teenager who barely bathed or had that fucking scraggly head of hair when you broke out of jail. And I’m gonna love you, whether you get fucking jacked or are a grey-haired fifty-year-old with a beer gut.”

Mickey felt his lips curve into a ghost of a smile. With all their talking about being the “man,” and mentally comparing himself to Ian’s exes, sometimes Mickey forgot that Ian felt the same way about him that he felt about Ian—that he would love him no matter who or where he was, that he would be driven crazy no matter what he looked like.

Ian pressed another searing kiss to the inside of Mickey’s neck. “I like the way you smell.”

Mickey looked up from Ian’s shoulder and gently rolled his eyes. “You’re a fucking softy.”

“And you’re sensitive. We’ve been over this. Now c’mere.”

**Author's Note:**

> can u tell i am on winter break & bored out of my mind!!
> 
> as always, comments/kudos make my heart happy:)


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